


super-villainy not required

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff I guess, Gen, Plague, game, or something, possibly pre-slash?, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored. John gives him a distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	super-villainy not required

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a bit of silliness. I needed, I suppose, something of a writing exercise. To frickin' finish something, because the big thing I'm working on is fighting me hard right now.
> 
> It's totally un-beta'd and un-brit'ed, so feel free to point out any glaring mistakes, as I generally make a few when I'm typing something up and I never see them myself.
> 
> Oh, and also? This takes place in that magical land where all is right with the world and Reichenback NEVER. EFFING. HAPPENED.

John had tried everything he could think of to keep Sherlock from sinking, but nothing so far had worked. He’d even offered to play Cluedo with him. He’d offered to play Cluedo by Sherlock’s rules, even.

Nothing. 

Had.

Worked.

Sherlock is curled up on the sofa, one long, tense S-curve clad in cornflower blue silk and ratty pyjama bottoms, when John gets back from a night at the pub with Lestrade and several others from his division at the Yard. It’s a regular thing, and John joins them when he’s not running around London after a headless chicken of a detective, or when he’s trying not to kill said headless chicken of a detective.

“Sherlock, where’s your phone?”

“Who cares? Boring,” Sherlock grunts in reply.

John goes through Sherlock’s coat pockets first; doesn’t find the iPhone. He stumbles a little when he goes into the kitchen to look through the drawers and cupboards (he’d once found Sherlock’s phone in with his tea. Sherlock hadn’t deigned to explain that one [John thinks it’s because he wasn’t able to.]).

“Really, John? Four pints?” Sherlock sneers.

“Shut it, you. Do you have it with you?”

Sherlock doesn’t bother replying, but John does see his shoulders climb another inch up towards his ears. 

John has, indeed, had four pints of lager that night, and it has affected him enough to loosen his inhibitions considerably, so he bounds across the room (Sherlock’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline) and drops to his knees next to the sofa, manhandles his flatmate onto his back--Sherlock doesn’t even protest, he just flops, eyebrows lodged near his hair--and feels through his pockets.

“Aha!” he sings out wen he comes up with the phone, pushing back to his feet and sitting on the coffee table; kneeling for too long makes his leg hurt.

Sherlock flops back over onto his side, curling up even tighter around himself, repeating his mantra that he isn’t even a little bit interested in what John is doing. Or in how his hands had felt against Sherlock’s body.

John slides the button with his thumb and enters Sherlock’s password. Sherlock listens for the tone that sounds when the password is entered incorrectly. It doesn’t come.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at John. “How did you know that?”

“Obvious.” John smirks and taps the icon for the app store and ignores Sherlock’s death glare.

Sherlock harumphs and turns back to the back of the couch when it becomes obvious that he is not being paid any heed. He can’t help but listen as John slowly types something into the search, murmuring nonsense to himself and smelling like beer and tea and himself.

As John keeps clicking, Sherlock concedes to a vague sense of curiosity--which is totally allowed about the person you live with, right?--and turns onto his back to watch John, who is apparently buying something. He doesn’t ask for Sherlock’s account password.

“How do you know my account password?”

“Sherlock, I’ve been using your account to buy music for months.”

“Oh.” There’s really not much else he can say to that. 

John watches the phone as whatever it is he’d purchased downloads, and Sherlock watches John’s face in the glow from the phone, notes his expression, the lines of strain around his eyes, the ones that he puts there every time this happens.

When John is satisfied, when the program has finished, he stands and drops the phone onto Sherlock’s chest.

“I’m knackered. Try to get some sleep at some point tonight, please. I’ll make a nice breakfast in the morning.”

Sherlock ignores his phone and shuts his eyes.

Apparently John is satisfied with his, as he only says a quiet “Good night, Sherlock,” and goes up to bed, steps heavy as the alcohol wears off and tiredness sets in.

Sherlock ignores the soft, vaguely eerie music for as long as he can manage, before he gives in and picks up his phone. The screen is red, with a map of the world and what he thinks is supposed to be a biohazard symbol, overlaid with three choices: Play; How to Play; and High Scores.

Sherlock taps the ‘play’ button.

\----

When John comes downstairs the next morning, Sherlock is still flopped out on the sofa, sprawled and asleep with his mouth just slightly open. His phone is on his chest.

John takes a glance at it and sees that the low battery warning is up. There’s only two percent left. He gingerly pickes up the phone, saves Sherlock’s game (his virus is called Mycroft), and takes the phone to the partner’s desk to plug it in to charge.

He then goes into the kitchen to make breakfast, and doesn’t wake Sherlock, letting the smell of bacon do that for him.

\----

For three whole, blissful, quiet days, the game Plague consumes Sherlock the way only really good puzzles can. He only speaks to mutter about symptoms and abilities and infectivity and disease vectors, to triumph when his diseases mutate of their own accord, and to lament his failures when he is unable to destroy the world.

He eats whatever John puts in front of him; John manages to get nearly three full meals into him and does a victory dance in the kitchen that seems to go unnoticed.

It is towards the end of the day when Sherlock crows in triumph.

John looks up from the medical journal he’s been reading. Sherlock is grinning at him, one of those rare, child-like, happy smiles of his. John saves it.

“I’ve destroyed the world, John!”

“Always wondered if you’d decide to go into super-villainy.” John smiles at him.

Sherlock’s brow furrows momentarily. “ _We’ve_ destroyed the world, John.”

“We?”

Sherlock shows him the phone, which informs John that the virus “Watson” has destroyed all human life on earth.

“Should’ve known you’d drag me down with you.” When John looks up, Sherlock is grinning again. “I’m both flattered and appalled.”

Sherlock fiddles with the phone for a few moments longer before getting up and declaring that he needs a shower. John doesn’t look up or acknowledge that yes, Sherlock does rather desperately need to bathe, but Sherlock pauses briefly and lays a hand on John’s shoulder, murmuring “Thank you, John,” before continuing on his way.

**Author's Note:**

> Plague is, actually, a game. It's pretty creepy, but awesome and fun. It is available for iPhone and iPad; I have no clue if it's available on Android or Blackberry, as I don't own one of either of those. I recommend it to any and all. Unless, yanno, you don't fancy attempting to destroy all human life on the planet.


End file.
